I Need Another Story
by Kavi Leighanna
Summary: She shouldn't have told him, should have kept her mouth shut. Because now she's condemned them all to death. Hotch/Prentiss (slow burn) - Valhalla/Lauren AU
1. Chapter 1

She is better than this.

She repeats the phrase to herself over and over again as she pats at her cheeks with a wet paper towel, runs her wrists under the freezing temperature of the bathroom sink. But this time, she can't hold onto the panic. She's working on too little sleep, too much adrenaline and a vicious paranoia that she knows is going to leave her hallucinating in a few days if she's not careful.

Valhalla.

Ian Doyle.

And this time he's not just sending her flowers and meeting her at deserted Washington picnic tables. No, this time he's doing what he does best: terrorizing his victims. He's pulling her into his whirlpool, yanking her down a painful memory lane she'd been sure she'd locked safely away in the heavily booby trapped back of her mind.

(She'd told JJ once, eons ago, that she could keep calm because she was really good at compartmentalizing. But standing here, her past shoved in her face on the barrel of a gun, she thinks that maybe she'd been naïve in making such a statement. Naïve and full of herself and absolutely riding the high on her conviction that she was safe. Ian Doyle was locked away in a black hole Russian prison.

Turns out even that had been a lie.)

She's not blind and she's not stupid. There isn't a human being alive that knows Ian Doyle as well as she does. The symbolism in his kill is not lost on her and –

God, God. She is better than this.

"Emily?"

His voice comes from miles away, faded and distorted, warped under the pounding of her pulse in her ears. "Fine. I'm fine."

Except she's not. She is not, not with the way her vision is going dark around the edges. Her lungs hurt, a stabbing paint hat tells her she's breathing too hard, too fast. Her fingers are growing numb from the lack of good blood flow- No. From how hard she's clenching the edge of the counter.

"Emily."

No. No. Not now and not like this. In a moment when she's caught her breath and has control over herself, yes. Not like this. And definitely not him.

"Away," she manages, swatting at him. "Away."

But he doesn't go. Of course he doesn't go, not when it's her and certainly not when she's having a bad day. Not when the depth of their friendship is founded on seeing each other at their worst and most vulnerable.

He catches her hand and reels her in, the contract cracking open her chest. Body-wrenching sobs of panic tear from her throat in a torrent that won't give up and won't let her catch her breath. But he doesn't crowd her, doesn't yank her close. He follows her back and she stumbles towards the wall, crouches down when she slides down to sit on the floor. He releases her hand only to reach out and his fingers around her ankle.

"I'm going to squeeze, okay? I'm going to squeeze your ankle and you're going to breathe with it. In when it's tight, out when it's loose."

She shakes her head. She can't. She can't focus enough to figure out if she's breathing, let alone help him regulate it.

"Yes, you can," he tells her, voice calm, smooth and steady. "Ready?"

She shakes her head violently, harshly, enough that between the sobs and the fact that air is so incredibly precious right now, it leaves her dizzy and her vision foggy around the edges.

"Okay. In, two, three. And out."

It takes time, but slowly three becomes four, and four becomes five. By five her eyes have cleared and her breath is coming easier. He's shifted somewhere along the line, shoulder to shoulder with her now instead of crouched in front. She focuses on that, of the heat of his thigh against hers, the pressure of his fingers around her ankle. It's still a couple of minutes before he speaks.

"Do you know him?"

The answer's already in his eyes and they both know it. Her hand clenches where it's wrapped around his wrist. He squeezes her ankle and makes her breathe in fives again. Once, twice, then a third time.

"Yes," she finally says, voice raw and hoarse from her panic attack. "Yes Hotch. Yes, I know Ian Doyle."


	2. Chapter 2

Shit.

It's the only think he can think when her confession sinks in. He can't even find words. All he has is a running litany of language he hasn't had reason to use since his SWAT days.

(Foyet doesn't count.)

"I worked his case," she says when the silence drags on. "There was a joint taskforce."

He opens his mouth, but he still can't seem to make his voice work. It takes him too long, he thinks, before he manages, "Tell me."

She does.

It's factual, like a report. She's all but curled in on herself as she speaks, rattles off names, places and enough acronyms to build the alphabet.

(He tries to listen, he does, but he can't seem to get his mind off the fact that this is the second woman he's in- That he's cared about in the last decade being targeted by a serial killer. It's tunnel vision and it's terrifying and he knows it's going to affect the decisions he's going to have to make.

Emily's in danger.

Shit.)

"He was in Russia."

It's incongruous, a vulnerable admission in a small voice. Everything his Emily is not.

"He was supposed to be in Russia."

Protectiveness flares in his chest, hot and molten. Not the first time, by far, but the most violent. He stamps down on it, hard because it's not what she needs, no matter how much he wishes it were something she wanted. He sucks in a breath instead, forces himself to focus. "How long have you known?"

"A few weeks," she admits. "My handler called. I-" Her hand tightens around his wrist. "Hotch I didn't want to drag you guys into this. This isn't your fight."

This time, as protectiveness flares, it mixes with a violent and volatile possession and nurtures anger with it. That is unacceptable. She is his. She is theirs. She is not going to do this alone. So he reaches out and grasps her chin in a move that is too intimate, crosses a line they only ever cross behind closed, private doors. It catches her attention though.

"You are ours," he tells her, just barely resisting the use of the singular possessive, his voice a terrifying growl. Her face flares with things he won't talk about and refuses to consider.

"You are ours, do you hear me? We do this as a team and we protect our own."

"No," she protests immediately. "Not this time. Not this."

"Exactly this. Especially this. He brought this game to us."

Dropped it right in their backyard even.

Emily runs a trembling hand through her hair in a move so habitual Hotch isn't convinced she's aware she's doing it. "He brought it to me."

"To us."

He just barely manages not to shake her. He should find a better way to explain, tell her he wouldn't have survived Foyet if it weren't for the team (for her), but it is so far from the time.

He drops his hand from her chin, reaches for her fingers instead. "You need us."

 _Please need me_.

She looks at him, just stares for a moment. "I'm going to get you all killed."

 _No_ , he thinks to himself, _We're going to keep you safe._


	3. Chapter 3

Once she's calmed, she lets him guide her back to the conference room. She tangles her fingers together to keep from chewing her nails as anxiousness pounds through her blood.

"Oh good, you're back," Penelope says, with a triumphant, predatory smile. "Ian Doyle is officially on everyone's list. His mug is everywhere. He won't be able to get out of the District without sprouting wings himself."

Emily wants to smile, wants to feel as amazing and ahead of the game as everyone else does. The problem is that she knows Doyle, not only well, but intimately. She can't say she'd be surprised to discover he's already left their search area. If he's still in the District, he's here for a reason. She's probably looking at it.

"Not that I'm not happy we have his name," Ashley begins tentatively. "But how do we know who's on his list?"

Hotch's elbow squeezes hers. It's her cue to spill, to explain her role in Ian Doyle's arrest, but she can't. Ashley's question has sparked another revelation, this one settling heavily in her stomach. She knows who's on that list all right and fumbles in her pocket for her phone. Hotch's hand grips her wrist, a question and a warning.

"We comb through his life, check out every single person he's ever come into contact with," Derek says, utterly unaware of her growing distress.

"Tsia," she manages, drawing the team's curious gazes, but hers is fixed on Hotch. She hates the pleading note in her voice. She is better than this. She has more control than this, and she's going to need to draw on wellsprings of patience and reserves of her control to tell her story.

In the meantime, however.

"I need to talk to Tsia."

He looks back into the room, just a moment and just a glance. Then he's nodding and all but herding her out the door. "Make a list," he says to the team. "Every person Doyle's come into contact with."

"Hotch-"

Emily has no idea what Hotch does to cut Derek off, but the room falls utterly silent when he does. When Hotch does speak, the temperature plummets. "A list."

Then his hand is on her elbow again, the touch warm and reassuring as much as he uses it to steer her towards his office. She's already tugging her phone from her pocket, half way through dialling when he follows her through his door, closing it behind them.

"Emily, you're on speaker."

"Darling."

She doesn't realized she's reached for him until she's gripping the lapel of his jacket in her fist. She should let go, but she can't seem to gather enough willpower to do it. "Tsia, pick up the phone."

She hears Easter scoff. "Em-"

She glances at Hotch, at his utterly stone face and draws calm from it. Her next words are hard, harsh and uncompromising. Her eyes stay locked on his. "Pick up the phone, Tsia."

There's a beat, then a click. "Emily."

"Get out of there," Emily says, and lets the urgency and panic bleed into her voice. "Do you remember Ninth Street? Carelli's, how the door works?"

"Yep." And while Tsia's voice has no inflection, Emily has no doubt her friend is filing away the instructions. Good, because they both know that if Emily is freaking out, there's something to the panic.

"He's still there. You'll be in and out in five minutes."

Hotch grips her wrist, draws her attention from Tsia's response. "Tell her to come in." He squeezes Emily's wrist insistently. "We'll pick her up. Somewhere you think is safe. Somewhere she trusts."

No. It's all she can think. Involving him, involving the team had been bad enough, but housing two targets at the BAU? It's unacceptable and out of the question. Hell, Emily's not wholly convinced Doyle even knows Tsia's in the US, let alone in DC and she's not willing to take the risk of exposing her.

"You're safer on your own," she says into the phone instead, weathers the disapproval in Hotch's face.

"Got it."

Good. Emily closes her eyes, has to, to avoid the look in Hotch's eyes. "Tsia."

And the other woman must hear everything in Emily's voice, apology and strength and gratitude and bone-deep friendship. "I know."

Then she's gone and Emily's left relying on faith and her knowledge of Tsia's abilities to keep the woman who had been as good as her partner safe.

Meanwhile, she opens her eyes to Hotch's disapproval and irritation with the knowledge that now she has to shift her attention. She's put her team at risk and now she not only has to save her own life, but theirs.


	4. Chapter 4

It's not that he's angry, per se. Well, he knows it's not anger more than anything else. Betrayal, maybe, concern for her and this Tsia she's so damn worried about, of course. There's a growing feeling in his gut that he doesn't like, that makes him feel like sending her friend running says something about her faith in the team he wishes it didn't.

He wants to snap at her, maybe shake her. They've only ever succeeded as a team. They only ever go off the rails when they try to function independently of each other. He wants to know why she can't see that, why it's so easy for her to lecture him on sticking close, on staying with them back when his world had dropped out from beneath him, and why she seems so intent on freezing them out now.

"I can't bring her in," Emily begins. "I can't ask you to house her too. I'm not doing that to them."

"Doing what?" he asks, doesn't even realize the sound that comes out of him is his own voice, low and incredibly intense.

She runs her fingers over her face as best she can around the white-knuckled grip she still has on her phone. "This is- Ian is my issue. He's my problem."

He's not stupid and he knows Emily. He can already see the way she wants this argument to unfold. He opens his mouth to debunk the whole thing, to point out the obvious flaws in her statement when her hand tightens on his jacket.

"You don't know what he's capable of," she says. "I've been there. I've seen it and it's not pretty."

Hotch discovers that he doesn't like the implication of that statement. At all. Nor the way her spine goes ramrod straight, like she's finally tapped into that immovable, unshakable calm he's come to admire in her. Her eyes are hard and brittle.

"Ian is ruthless. He doesn't care who he has to go through to get to me. That means you. Every single one of you." She surprises him when she steps closer and surprises himself with the violent jolt of his reaction, the heavy pounding that starts in his blood. "I've told you, but not them. They don't need to know."

The hell they don't. Keeping the team out of the loop is a terrible idea and they both know it. It's a desperate move to close the Pandora's Box Emily had never meant to open Except he won't let her. He refuses to let her. He won't lose her and he certainly refuses to lose her to a situation he can control and influence. He can protect her from this. They can protect her from this. But he also knows her well enough to know the only way they can is if it's something she wants.

"Agent Prentiss."

As it turns out it's exactly the thing to say. The panic lingering behind the cold hardness in her eyes retreats enough that her breathing calms, starts to regulate itself. Her shoulders go back, but her hand still grips his jacket. His is still wrapped around her wrist, grounding her, he wants to think.

He will not abandon her and he will not let her abandon him.

"The more we know, the better chance we have at catching him," he tells her in that same low, controlled voice. "You said it yourself, you know him like no one else."

He finds himself reaching for her other hand, wrapping his fingers around her slim wrist. He brings that hand to his chest too, holds her there in a way that is probably too intimate for what they are now and for the office. He doesn't care. Not right now.

"You know him better than anyone," he says, using her own words against her. "So use that. Here."

"At what cost? At whose cost? He's already threatened the team. He's already threatened you. And Jack."

He goes still for a moment as the implications process. "You knew he was here."

"Yes." It comes out like she's dragging her voice over hot coals. She's slipped now and they both know it. "He tracked me down."

He doesn't realize he's squeezing her bones until she hisses in pain. "When?"

"When doesn't matter-"

"Emily. How long as he been here?"

"A few weeks," she relents. "He sent me flowers."

He hisses. "At home."

"I've taken precautions-"

It's not good enough and he growls. It does explain the bruises around her eyes, the jumpiness and withdrawn nature of her interactions with all of them, her reluctance to come to dinner with Jack like she always does. He goes to tell her it's unacceptable, that things are going to change when Dave knocks and pokes his head in the door. They have a case, after all, even if she's the one in the thick of it.

"She's here," Dave says, and Hotch is aware enough to see the way Dave's eyes stay pointedly on his face.

Hotch feels Emily's hand tighten. "Hotch-"

He releases the hand that holds her phone. "I had Dave call in reinforcements," he reveals.

"Rein-Hotch."

He's already dragging her along, back towards the conference room. He certainly hopes his reinforcement can shed some light on whom they're working with. Maybe, if he's lucky, she'll even manage to convince Emily to work with them instead of fighting against him. It's the latter he's banking on since Emily still seems so very reluctant to share. It's a reluctance that is making him exceedingly nervous in the face of the bombshell of knowing Ian Doyle.

In the meantime, he watches as JJ looks up from reading Garcia's laptop screen, a smile on her face that displays just how dangerous she can be when she's not playing the role of sweet, adorable, all-American belle. She straightens and picks up the remote beside the laptop, nodding once in Hotch's direction.

"Let's get to work."

* * *

 _You are all darlings. Thank you for leaving your thoughts on the first three chapters!_


	5. Chapter 5

Emily's not sure she's ever been so grateful to see JJ in her life. She's not sure if it's because everything about her interaction with Hotch has left her unsteady of if it's because there is something utterly comforting in having her best friend so close. And obviously informed.

"And here I thought I'd be telling you things you didn't already know," JJ says, bringing up six pictures. Emily hears the collective gasp that ripples through the team. Her picture is there, and it makes everything in go cold and remote.

"Em?"

Derek's voice sounds like it's so very, very far away. Emily doesn't realize she's stepped up beside JJ until she's facing a bunch of confused and betrayed faces.

"JTF-12 was a special taskforce set up to monitor terrorism," she says, her voice stiff and matter-of-fact.

Dave's eyes are narrow, but the rest of his face is blank. She's surprisingly grateful for it as he says, "They were profiling terrorists."

JJ nods. "The taskforce was set up after 9/11. The CIA and other Western agencies contributed their best and brightest."

"How does Doyle fit in?" Emily's known Reid long enough to catch the reined in emotions in his voice.

Emily looks back at the screen, at the six people that had once been her team, her support, her backup, her everything. "He was our last case."

Her eyes dark from Jeremy's face, to Sean's. Her life, her past, spread all out like she's a victim. Everything she'd tried to keep dead and buried after Lauren's death is now a buffet of information haunting her like a ghost. She thinks maybe she knows how Derek felt all those years ago when they'd had to dig through his life with a fine-toothed comb.

"And now the JTF is on his hit list."

It's said without emotion, but the tension in the room ratchets up another notch with JJ's statement.

"Jeremy Wolff was victim number one, with Germany's BND," JJ says, separating the picture from the rest of the pack. "Seam McCallister at Interpol was the second. He's the on who brought the JTF in to work the Doyle case. He was murdered last week in Brussels with his wife and daughter. Then there's Tsia Mosley of France's DCRI. She got engaged to Jeremy earlier this year. After he died, she fled to DC."

It's the first time Emily feels her resolve crack and she chances a glance at Hotch. He's settled at the table beside Dave and his gaze is steady on her, steady and strong. She breathes.

"And team leader Clyde Easter, who was also in DC but has fallen off the grid. He hasn't checked in and no one can find him."

Emily's breath shakes as she releases it, but Hotch is right there in her field of vision, regarding her calmly even ask he asks, "Did the JTF make the arrests?"

"No," Emily replies, even shakes her head. "The host countries handled that. We'd move on to the next case."

"If all you did was deliver a profile," Hotch goes on, his voice careful, like he knows the answer to his next question isn't going to be one he's going to like. "How does Doyle even know about you?"

Her hands shake as she folds them in front of her in an effort to keep them still. "Considering the shadowy nature of terrorist cells, we used a skill the BAU doesn't: infiltration."

"Lauren Reynolds is dead," Reid says, meeting her gaze over the page Emily assumes is the list of people present at Ian's French villa the day he was arrested. "You said that, seventeen days ago. You were undercover on Doyle."

Emily breaks Reid's gaze. She has to. He, like Derek, feels betrayed in a way she gets it. It's a huge piece of her life, of her personality that they know nothing about. They're not wrong, but Emily knows they're not right either. Not by a mile.

Look, she's not ashamed of what they'd done. Maybe she wishes the 'how' had been different, but her JTF team had been good people doing good work. She is damned proud of that, even if this particular case comes with a mind-boggling number of emotional complications.

"She fit his type," JJ breaks in, her voice hard and carrying a note of defensiveness. Emily offers her a small smile.

"I made contact with him in Boston," the brunette offers, forcing herself to treat this like a debrief. It's the only way to keep the panic at bay, to keep from stopping and remembering that every little piece of information she gives them on Ian Doyle can get them killed just that much faster. "I was posing as another arms dealer. My job was to get information on Valhalla."

"How did you get to Doyle as part of your cover?" Derek asks slowly, warily. He'll never forgive her, not for this, for the lies, even by omission. Which means there's no way in hell he's ever going to come close to that given what she knows she's about to share. Anger sparks with sadness and grief because he has no right to judge her for her history, for the job she'd done. Doyle's case had been a classic honeypot mission, tried and true spy craft.

And it had worked.

The tone says he already has a guess, they all do, but Emily fortifies herself for the answer, for the backlash. "The easiest tactic was romance," she says. "I had to seduce him."


	6. Chapter 6

"How do you do it?" JJ had asked Emily once, guilt eating her stomach and terror all over her face. Emily had leaned back, stepped back in surprise and maybe a little hurt. "How does it not bother you?"

"I'm just better at compartmentalizing, I guess," had been Emily's stuttered response, thrown by the confrontation and accusation in JJ's voice.

JJ had believed it then, long before she understood what it took for Emily to crack herself open and trust, long before she knew just how expressive Emily could be. She closes Dave's office door behind them and watches her friend's spine hunch.

"What don't we know?" JJ asks softly. "What are you holding back?"

 _From me._

 _From them._

 _From him._

Because JJ's eyes are no longer only made for press clippings and murder files, her gut no longer a mere annoyance, but a trusted ally. It seems plenty has happened in the six months she's been gone, if not the last six hours. She'd seen the way Emily had looked at Hotch for strength, and while the action isn't unique in it's own right, there's something different in it now. There's something different in the way they orient themselves now that JJ either hadn't been looking for or had been too blind to see.

She catalogues Emily's face now as she turns, the red eyes, the tension around her mouth, the fear that wrinkles her brow. There's nothing hidden, not in that face.

"Em." And JJ takes her hand now, squeezing, coaxing.

Emily closes her eyes, opens them again. There's so much turmoil in her eyes, the entire mess like a Greek tragedy written in her body language. JJ subconsciously braces herself.

"I loved him, Jayje," she says in a voice that makes JJ think of the pain in ripping off a Band-Aid. Quick, momentary, but it's not. It's the kind of pain that stays in all of the lines on Emily's face. It's the kind of pain that lingers.

"At least, a piece of me did. The piece that was Lauren."

JJ files the name away, makes a note to put in another call. "It's not unheard of."

"Doesn't make it right."

Doesn't make it smart is what Emily doesn't say. Not that she has to. She's been too expressive for too long and the self-annoyance, the self-hatred is clear as day on her face.

"It doesn't matter," Emily says softly.

JJ shrugs. "It kind of does. A rock and a hard place," she offers with a sad, jaded approximation of a smile. "Fake it 'til you make it."

That, at least, gets a watery burst of a chuckle. "I don't think this is what they meant."

"Maybe not," JJ concedes easily. It's not the point here anyway. "Relevant though."

"Maybe not," Emily echoes with a sarcastic smile. "For all I was his type, it turns out he was mine too."

Awareness tingles on the tips of JJ's fingers, a strange leaden weight sitting on her chest. "He loved you."

"As much as a man like that can." She sound so sure and probably hurts all the more for it. "Ian and Valhalla weren't the same."

"Neither are Lauren and Emily."

Emily drops to the nearby chair, cradles her head in her hands, presses her palms to her eye. " buried it all, Jayje. I buried it all seven years ago."

And look where it got you.

JJ doesn't voice that opinion of course, just reaches out to squeeze her friend's shoulder. "So what are you going to do now? Bury it again?"

Emily lifts her head, glares, but JJ holds her ground. They both know that's not an option anymore. So Emily sighs, a heavy exhausted sound that doesn't make JJ feel near as triumphant as she'd expected, nor as relieved. It makes her nervous.

Then the door's opening and Hotch is there, face grim.

Time's up.

"My office," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to hear over the chaos building in the bullpen. Other agencies, a makeshift, last minute task force. His face softens as he faces Emily with a look on his face that JJ files away. "We'll need everything you can give us."

"Of course." But there's a tremor in her voice, in case they'd lulled into believing all is well. They hadn't, but as JJ exchanges a look with Hotch, the heaviness in her chest squeezes. The idea, the feeling that there's still so much Emily hasn't said looms large in her mind. Trepidation and mistrust are breeding and multiplying and JJ hates it.

* * *

 _Sorry about missing last week. Life got in the way, and will again._

 _New chapter this weekend and next weekend, then it'll be every other weekend after that. Life's about to get pretty messy, so we're going to be switching to biweekly posts._

 _Biggest thanks and hugs to all of you who take the time to tell me what you think. It's ridiculously interesting to try and write this when all of canon's already established, but man is it fun!_


	7. Chapter 7

They go over the profile again and again, the one that JTF-12 had put together and the newest iteration of the same. An hour later, they're still waiting and they can all feel the tension and impatience rising up in the space beyond Hotch's door.

"What are we waiting for?" Dave asks, and Emily has to admit she appreciates his anxiousness.

"Metro PD," Hotch answers, though his eyes are on her. She's felt them every few minutes all hour long. It's unsettling and reassuring. She's not sure if he's waiting for her to drop into another panic attack, or hand over the last, vital piece to finding and capturing Ian Doyle. But since she's already sent Tsia away and he refuses to let her lure him out, they're at an angry impasse.

She doesn't understand why he's keeping her so close, why he seems so intent on keeping her chaperoned and leashed. It feels contradictory, the number of times he's told her she is invaluable for her knowledge but absolutely refuses to let her actually use it. The protectiveness is starting to get suffocating.

"Who's going to have the update on roadblocks?" Dave asks and if he's aware of the added tension between his colleagues, he's not picking sides. Neither, to Emily's dismay, is JJ.

"Metro," Hotch answers.

"He has the connections to get in and out of the country," Emily says in desperation. They should be out there already, Metro be damned. They should be making sure Doyle's still within their net because she severely, severely doubts he is. It's the annoying part, really, the idea that Ian must know how desperately she wants to hunt. It's frustrating to think that it's the impetus to Hotch keeping her close. Actually, it straight up pisses her off. "What makes you think he can't get out of the District?"

"It's the best we've got," Hotch answers, crossing his arms.

There is apology in his voice and she hears it loud and clear. She's too busy growling, too busy trying so painfully hard not to push back, to point out that it is nowhere near the best they've got if he'd just let her…. She opens her mouth to tell him that, to make her case again, when Derek steps in.

"Metro got held up by a double homicide at K and Ninth."

Emily's blood runs cold and she just barely manages to lock her knees to keep her from collapsing.

Tsia.

"They want me to take a look."

Hotch isn't looking at Derek. His eyes are fixed on her. He's the only one who'd been in the room when she'd told Tsia to go to Carelli's and from the look on his face, he's made the connection just as fast as she has.

She has to swallow twice before she can ask, "Doyle?"

"Vic's apartment looks like a black market forger."

It's as good as confirmation, about Doyle and about the likelihood of finding Tsia alive. Emilys heart clenches painfully in her chest, her legs shaking hard enough to ache. She barely registers Hotch moving, JJ closing ranks at her back until the warmth of their shoulders pressing against the back of hers. If Derek notices, he refrains from commenting.

"The other victim?" she makes herself ask, digs her nail into her palms. They must know there's something up, Dave and Derek and JJ but it's Derek that answers.

"A woman in her thirties, no ID, outside the door."

This time, her knees really do buckle and it's Hotch, who may have anticipated such a reaction, that catches her, a hand around her waist and one at her elbow. She doesn't get any satisfaction or happiness from the way even Derek, who is still upset, pitch towards her.

"Em-"

"Tsia," she says. "It has to be Tsia."

* * *

 _Biweekly postings start now! Haha._

 _No, but seriously. No chapter next week. There will be one the week after that._

 _Thanks for your patience and your reviews! I'm at the cottage for the weekend, but I'll get to replies for the signed reviews on Tuesday or so._


	8. Chapter 8

Everything in the room gets cold, fast.

It's one thing to put pictures on a television screen and understand that his friend, his colleague had intimate dealings with a group of people getting picked off one by one, but it's a whole other to see the toll the case is obviously taking on her. He feels some of his anger, some of his betrayal fade away in the face of it.

No matter how he feels about Emily keeping secrets, secrets she's obviously still keeping, at least from him (and he's trying not to feel the additional sting of betrayal that Hotch obviously knows) he can't imagine what it would feel like to stand by while his team is picked off one by one. Or at the least he's impressed with her self-control. He can't stay he'd still be here in her position.

He's not stupid enough to think she couldn't hunt Doyle on her own if she wanted. The one thing Derek knows for sure is that there isn't a member of this team that wouldn't put everything on the line if it meant the lives of their found family. There is a dark side in each of them, one they have no problem justifying if it's one of their own at risk.

"I'm coming with you."

It's a bad idea. It's a terrible idea and Derek doesn't even have to glance at Hotch to understand that his boss is whole-heartedly against the idea. So naturally, Derek looks at the woman devastated and half-collapsed against Hotch and says, "Let's go."

She's silent for the drive, looking out the window and chewing her nails. He's familiar with the habit, but where he'd usually reach over, slap her hand away, he merely grips the steering wheel.

"I wish you'd told me," he says quietly. He's been trying so hard not to take it all personally, the fact that she hadn't said she's in trouble when Doyle had shown up, hadn't immediately come to him, to them. He can't help wondering if her friend would be alive, how many members of her team, how many people, would still be alive if she'd only said something sooner.

"How?" she asks. "It's not like a happy childhood story or a funny anecdote from my teenage years. It's…"

He gets the immediate sense that she's not totally sure how to explain what are likely to be complex emotions. He's never known her to apologize for actions she saw as right, as necessary, and from the emotions skittering across her face he concludes it's exactly that. Pride but also hurt, self-loathing and the wish that maybe things had gone a little differently.

"You're in danger," he finally says.

"It's not the first time," she points out sharply. "I don't need you to protect me."

He grips the steering wheel again, his fingers flexing and releasing on the leather. She is stubborn and headstrong, always has been, but this. This. This is her life. Can't she see that?

"It's not about protection," he finally manages to say without feeling like he wants to shake her. She snorts in disbelief before he can go on and he takes the time to glare at her. The defiance in her eyes hurts, maybe more than it should. He's mature enough to admit that to himself, even if he'd never say it to her.

"Dammit, Em. You're not alone. You're not."

"Neither were you."

He's smart enough to know what she's talking about and has known her long enough to recognize when she's lashing out. She's always been good at cutting someone down at the knees.

"How do you think I figured it out?" he finally says, when he knows he won't say something he'll regret. "Let us help."

 _Let me help._

Her shoulders slump, he sees it out of the corner of his eye, but he feels no corresponding triumph. She's still closed off, still defensive and separate. Impotence rises up in him, tart, sharp and metallic in his mouth.

She confirms the feeling when she says, "This is my mess. And I'll be damned if I let one of you get killed trying to clean it up."

Instead of responding, he parks. Instead of reaching out, shaking her, snapping her head off to try and see sense, he lets her lead the way up the stairs, following the flow of officers. Which means he's there, right there, to see the way her face goes white when she sees the body in the hall, see the way her hands shake before she takes a deep breath and centres herself.

He vows then and there that he will not let her run. He will not let her do this alone because he'd tried. He'd failed then and he's never been so grateful for a failure in his life.

He will not let her make the same mistake.


	9. Chapter 9

He should have gone with her. He knows it the moment the elevator doors close on their backs. He hadn't been blind to Morgan's reaction. Actually, more than just Morgan's reaction. Since Metro had specifically requested him, it had made sense, at the time, to send Emily and Morgan to work out whatever idiotic thing had him looking at Emily like he'd never seen her before. Now, he's not so sure Morgan won't send her running.

Dave claps him on the shoulder. "They're going to be fine."

"Of course they are."

"And yet, you're worried."

Hotch isn't wholly sure how to explain it, isn't totally sure he could even if he did understand. Some of it is blatant fear because it is suddenly so, so clear that she could just disappear. It's not about means or motive now, but the indisputable evidence that there are huge pieces of her skill set that hadn't even been aware of.

"He's angry," is what he eventually settles on.

"They all are."

Hotch barely pivots to arch an eyebrow Dave's way. He shrugs.

"We all know she has a dark side. And we all have secrets."

They do. No matter how long they've all worked together, they all have something they're holding back. Morgan's past, Reid's father, JJ's sister… Gideon. Even Hotch can admit it's not the worst thing he's hurt.

"But."

Hotch looks over, fully this time.

"She was never perfect."

Not to Dave. Not to Hotch, and Dave knows this. To Reid? To Garcia? To Morgan? Things fall into place when he looks at it that way.

"You think she's going to run."

"She has the skills," Hotch points out, deceptively calm. "We'd never know."

"If she were planning on running, she would have done it by now."

"You sound so sure."

"You're not?"

Hotch crosses his arms, looks back across the gathering officers and agents in the bullpen, at Anderson coordinating the newcomers and at his team still clustered in the conference room. "No."

The silence says Dave needs a minute, more than, really. It's been a long time since Hotch has expressed anything less than unwavering faith in Emily, in her commitment to the BAU , to the work they do, the laws they uphold and the values they hold dear.

"She wouldn't abandon us."

"No," Hotch agrees, because that's not the question here. "She's sure Doyle won't play by the rules."

It's a given, actually. A correct assumption given the way Emily had sounded on the phone to Tsia, the look on her face as she realized she'd inadvertently sent the other woman to her death. Dave's shrug and rueful look tells Hotch that he doesn't doubt it either.

"She'd see it as protection, as a way to avoid asking us to do anything we aren't ready for."

Anything illegal. Anything that would compromise their integrity. Just because he's ready, just because he's done it before – and because he's more and more convinced there isn't much he wouldn't do for Emily – doesn't mean the rest of the team is prepared to colour outside the lines like that.

"Aaron. You know as well as I do there isn't a thing in this world the team would not do for each other."

He does. He really does. "That's the problem."

He doesn't need to see Dave's face to know Dave gets it. It helps that they both know Emily hasn't been entirely forthcoming with them, that there are details she's holding back.

"We can't let her run," Hotch says finally. "We have to make sure she doesn't run from us."

"From us?" Dave asks in that damn perceptive tone. "Or from you?"

Hotch wants to keep his face impassive. It doesn't matter. This is Dave. He does manage to keep his shoulders from slumping as he says, "Exactly."

Because they're the same damn thing.

* * *

 _I'm terrible at responding. August was insane and September isn't turning out to be much better. I'm endlessly sorry._

 _I do appreciate it. More than I have words for, both the patience and the feedback. So thank you, thank you, thank you._


	10. Chapter 10

There isn't a damn thing in the world that could have prepared her for Tsia's body. She wants to believe that the single bullet wound is merciful, but she can't get over the fact that Tsia's death is on her shoulders. Worse, she can't get over the fact that she definitely knows why. Doyle's not here for Tsia.

"Emily?"

Derek has the courtesy of keeping his voice low, beneath the murmur of natural crime scene chaos. She's so, so glad for it. She feels on display as it is, off-kilter and dizzy. He reaches out and discretely brushes her elbow.

"Hey."

"I'm good."

It's a reflex reaction and they both know it.

"Two bodies," he reminds her and while part of her wants to argue, remind him that she can damn well handle it, she's grateful for the reprieve. Or, more importantly, she's grateful for something else to focus on. Not that Carelli's body looks much better than Tsia's. And that's separate from the ridiculous mess that is the man's apartment. Ian's ransacked the place, the bastard, and Carelli's work is strewn all over the coffee table, the floor, the desk…

Carelli's work.

Oh God.

She has to stop for a moment, step back and suck in air slowly.

She closes her eyes, lets herself drift back to the FBI bathroom and a strong palm against her ankle. One, two, three…

"Ma'am?"

Her eyes fly open, her mask, at least temporarily, back in place. "Do we know if he took anything?"

"He?"

It takes her brain a moment to click over, to realize that there's the potential these men don't know there's a connection to a much larger case, a much bigger perp. "Is there anything missing?"

"Not that we know of. Guy didn't keep electronic records and it's going to take a while to comb though."

They don't have that kind of time. She glances to Derek, isn't surprised when he orients towards her immediately. She feels a strange sort of security settle in her stomach. He's in the lead here, the man Metro specifically requested, but she's the one with the knowledge.

"We'll take it back with us," she says, sees Derek's nod and is so, so grateful no questions accompany it. It gives her stability here, like everything isn't shaking out of her control.

Like maybe she'll be able to salvage something out of this.

Like maybe the whole thing, the reason she'd made the choices she had, the reason she is still keeping her cards close to the vest, maybe it won't all be for nothing.

"Shots look like .45s," Derek says, wonderful, magical Derek whom she no longer wants to kill for trying to pry into her life. "She didn't stand a chance."

Not as reassuring as it should be.

"Definitely our guy."

The Metro officer swallows, but looks prepared to stand his ground, to argue for his case. Right up until an exhausted looking detective steps up next to him. "You're sure?"

Derek glances to her, where she's already nodding. "Yeah, we're sure."

The detective nods. "Take what you need. We'll clean up here and send a couple of guys to Quantico."

Emily doesn't watch Derek and the detective shake hands. She's too focused on hoping to any deity listening that the picture of a little boy with the bluest of blue eyes is in Carelli's pile.

* * *

 _Have you heard the part where my September's been nuts?! I haven't done near the writing I wanted to. Which is why this has been so inconsistently updated all month._

 _Patience is love. The reviews are more love._

 _Thank you._


	11. Chapter 11

Penelope Garcia is no profiler, and by gods, she likes it that way. Her dark lair and the entire Internet spread out in front of her, this is her comfort zone. It is her domain. People? Not really her strong suit. But she's not blind either, and while yes, people are not as reliable and open as the web, she knows her family. She knows when they're in distress.

But this is beyond 'distressed'. She's not sure there's a word other than potentially 'devastated' to describe what they're all going through right now. She's reeling from it, Emily and the undercover work, trying to reconcile the woman she knows with a woman that doesn't seem to fit. The life she had, the life she'd lived, that's not her Emily. That's not the gentle, compassionate heart or the fierce strength. There's a part of Penelope weeping for that part of Emily, knowing that all of those beautiful pure parts of her had been, even for a moment, drowned out by ruthlessness and reckless darkness.

"Hey."

Penelope spins in her chair, heart in her throat. She'd retreated to her lair for a breath and a break, feeling like too bright of a beacon in the crazy darkness of agents and officers. She's not sure if this timid creature standing in her doorway is better or worse.

Emily looks ashen. She looks… broken, in a way that makes Penelope's heart ache. She doesn't like it. This isn't the fierce Mama Bear that stood by her when she'd been shot. This isn't the woman that had stood so stoically beside Hotch, defended him after the Foyet fiasco. This scared, timid, intimidated creature is not her Emily.

"Hi."

God, her voice sounds ridiculous. Wrecked even, choked in grief for a piece of her friend she didn't know and doesn't know how to handle. She feels it all well up in her, the protectiveness, and yes, maybe even the ruthlessness. Penelope can take the Mama Bear reins for now.

Emily's setting down the box she's carrying, stepping back, poised, her smile shaking around its edges. "I need you to- Oh."

Penelope's not even convinced she'd felt herself move, isn't sure she'd been aware of the thought, but the moment she catches Emily up in the hug, she knows she's made the right decision. Emily is only tense for a moment before her arms come up, a little hesitantly, to return the hug.

"I'm okay," she says.

"You're not," Penelope answers. There's no heat in it, just flat statement. There's no way Emily can be okay with what's going on right now, with what's happened, with the people she's lost. She sighs, then pulls back and lands a smack against the other woman's arm.

"Hey!"

"That's for thinking you could do this without us," Penelope says as she takes her seat again, primly spins the chair around.

Emily's mouth opens and Penelope knows what's coming next, has a counter argument prepared, even. She braces for it, but a moment later the fight drains out of Emily.

"That's what I thought." And she is not shifting gleefully in her chair. She is not. Even if she does know that avoiding an argument with her is all but an admission. "What did you bring me?"

"Carelli's work."

Penelope hums as Emily opens the box, pulls out a large plastic bag of passports, driver's licenses. "Not electronic."

"No," comes Emily's murmured agreement. "I need you to pull everything there is on Declan Doyle. And then I need you to see if there's anything in this box related to him."

There's something else here. Penelope's learning quickly that with this case, it's the default setting. She wants to push and knows she should, but she also knows there are big parts of her own past she's not all that forthcoming about. She can respect Emily's need to let the metaphorical sliver work its way out. Or at least, she understands she has to.

For now.

Penelope spins back to her screens. "Anything in particular Secret Agent Prentiss?" She knows it's the smile that she shoots over her shoulder that softens the sting of her words.

Emily taps her fingers on the evidence box. "Just that it's here."

But while the statement is nonchalant, there's something about it, about the whole situation, that's setting Penelope's teeth on edge. Emily only confirms it when she says, "And Garcia? Until we know for sure, that it's all here, this is just between us."

It makes Penelope shiver, the uncomfortable weight of it settling in her chest. "I don't like it."

Any of it, the case, the requests, all of the secrets and hidden lies. Outright lies. This isn't her family.

"I know," Emily promises and Penelope genuinely believes she does understand. "But I've spent a decade protecting him and damn if I'm going to give him up if I don't have to."

It takes Penelope aback in ways she thinks it shouldn't. "Emily," she breathes. "Who is Declan Doyle?"

The brunette stays frozen for a moment, her hands clenching and releasing before she shakes her head. "I can't."

Penelope likes that even less.

* * *

 _Hey 2 weeks in a row! I may be a little proud of myself._

 _Happy Canadian Thanksgiving to all of my fellow Canadians!_


	12. Chapter 12

She needs to make a call.

 _No,_ she reminds herself viciously, _You want to make a call._

She can't. She knows it. Tom would not be thankful or grateful if she broke silence when Declan's whereabouts have long since been classified as information she's going to take to her grave. Literally, if Ian has his way.

Instead, she makes another call.

"You utter naïve… Ass."

To his credit, the only sound Clyde makes on the other end of the phone is a sigh. Emily's known him long enough to hear the grief and regret in the sound. "It was supposed to be secure."

"Secure- Tsia's dead!"

"I know, love."

She growls. "He's threatened my team."

"Well of course. What did you expect?" There's irritation there now, a waspishness. Clyde's never been good with blame. "We ran the mission but you were the face he saw."

 _You took away the only thing that mattered to me. Now I'm going to take yours._

She shivers, can't help it, Ian's parting words over that wrought iron table have been haunting her since he'd uttered them. A dozen people in danger because of a damn career decision that had been both logical and a challenge at the same time. Profile a terrorist, save lives.

It's a hell of a way to learn 'don't fall in love with a mark' isn't always a choice.

No one warned her how important it was to leave as many lives untouched as possible.

"Emily. I'm getting on a plane in three hours. Pack a bag. Meet me in Baltimore."

Everything in her pulls taut. "You want me to run?"

"Oh darling, don't say it like that. We both know you're so good at it."

She goes cold. It's one thing to know her own instinct is to run, to get the danger as far away from the team as she can. It's another to have Clyde say it, to point out the flaw like it will change her mind. The resolve solidifies in her chest, the promise she's going to make to her team, her family, right here and right now, even if they never know about it.

Her head comes up at the sound of footsteps and she meets Hotch's gaze from the end of the hall. He arches a brow, the question obvious. An idea niggles in the back of her mind, her mouth stretching in a strange and twisted approximation of a smile. Hotch stops just close enough to see her face. She holds up a finger: _keep quiet_. He nods.

"I can't just abandon my team."

She sees the shift in Hotch's eyes because she can't seem to look away from him, the possession that slips into his gaze and has her momentarily distracted.

"You'll be saving them," she hears, forces herself to focus on Clyde again. "Who do you think he really wants, Emily? You or your team?"

Both, but she'll keep that to herself. She's kept Clyde in the dark for this long. She won't give him any more ammunition. But she cannot stop the smug smile from stretching her mouth, a cold ruthlessness rising in her chest. There's a dark thrill in being underestimated, in bucking expectations. There always has been.

Then her face transforms, ready to play her role here. The air comes out of her lungs in a whoosh of put upon insecurity. "Clyde-"

"They'll be safer without you. There's only the two of us left, Em."

 _I'm all you've got._

She doesn't need him to verbalize it.

"Okay," she says with that same insecure, resigned sigh. "Pick me up in an hour."

"You have everything."

She thinks of the envelope in her safe, the four passports, the foreign currency. "Yes."

"An hour," he repeats, then he's gone.

Emily tucks her phone away and looks up. She flinches. Hotch does not look pleased. She can't blame him, but she knows she has something to prove. She pulls herself up, straightens her spine, looks him in the eye.

"I'm not running."

His face doesn't change. That's the terrifying part.

"It sounded like it."

She can't help the way she crosses her arms defensively over her chest. "I'm not."

He doesn't reply. They both know how potent silence can be, and she's just as susceptible to it as any UNSUB they've faced.

"That was Clyde Easter."

"Your handler."

"Of a sort," she acknowledges, feels the way her fingers twitch to reach out. It's irrational and frustrating. "He wants me to believe you guys are safer without me."

His hand clenches into a fist. She's grateful for the restraint, the avoidance of the very obvious follow up. Clyde's full of shit. She doesn't need him to tell her that. She doesn't need him to tell her that the chances of catching Ian, of all of them coming out alive, rise exponentially with her around.

"I want to bring him in."

His fist releases suddenly, goes slack. She'd been looking for it, or she's sure she'd have missed the surprise as it spreads over his face.

"Easter knew Doyle was in North Korea," she explains. "He knows what happened after I was pulled out and debriefed."

He watches her for a moment, considering. The knowledge dawns in his eyes beside that possession, beside a feral darkness she can only remember from the days hunting down Foyet. "You think he knows what's coming next."

"I'm not running," she says, preface, knowing. "But I have a plan." She lets that smug, ruthless smile slip across her face again. "And I'm going to need you to drive."


	13. Chapter 13

The minute he steps into her apartment he finds himself at an utter loss.

He's backup, he'd realized quickly, there if Easter put up a fight. Superfluous, probably, because he finds himself severely doubting Emily's skills, even if she's out of the habit and he's sure as hell not ready to classify this as a way to prove she's not running. Not with the way she immediately slips into her bedroom, then, with a hand clenched at her side, into the nearby bathroom.

He's not sure what makes him give chase, isn't sure how the hell his reflexes beat hers in grabbing that hand, but the necklace inside drops to the tile with a metallic clang. She gives him a split second of surprise and he doesn't waste it, swooping down to pick up the coil of gold.

A ring.

He hears a gasp, thinks it's his for a moment until he gets a look at her face. This means things. Important things. Things that he'd seriously considered but had hoped wouldn't be true. Another secret she chose not to share.

Her hand shakes as she reaches for the necklace, closes around the ring where it dangles and glints in the sun. "It's a Gimmel ring."

"Which you were trying to hide."

"Get rid of, actually." But her smile is an ugly thing, not near as mocking as he thinks she'd hoped for.

Destroy evidence. He gets the sense that no one was supposed to know about it, let alone know what it means. It's not like her. He doesn't like what this case is turning her into, who this case is turning her into. He doesn't like that he feels this is a continual guessing game, that he never feels steady.

"Emily."

Her breath catches and she stumbles back. It takes him a moment to realize the latter is in counter to his own step forward. A moment later her back is against the bathroom counter and his hand lets go of the ring to wrap around her bicep. The other palms her hip, half against his own conscious mind. It's intimate, this position, but that's not what's on his mind.

Claiming her is.

He's sick of playing catch up. He's sick of leaving her at the mercy of other men. She is theirs. She is his. His cool, calm mask isn't working, can't hold up in the face of having to bring her back, to remind her what she has. Whose she is.

She's not Clyde Easter's.

She is certainly not Ian Doyle's.

She is his.

His mouth isn't gentle as it takes hers. He is fierce, possessive, gives her no quarter, almost no choice but to respond. It takes her a moment, a split second to figure out what's going on, but then she does exactly that. He doesn't hear the ring hit the floor, but it must if the curve of her hand around his neck is any indication. Her other hand fists his suit jacket, the same way it had in his office.

His hand leaves her hip to wrap around those fingers, hold her there, hold her close as he breaks for air. She's panting too, breath fast, eyes dark.

"I loved him," she whispers. "He wanted to marry me. I'd told him from the beginning I wasn't the marrying type."

"And now?" he asks, his grip tightening out of reflex. It does hurt, he's only human. He's not sure, given her face, that he can honestly differentiate between the emotions of Emily Prentiss, the woman he's worked alongside and yes, is attracted to, and Lauren Reynolds. He's not sure she can either.

He feels the tremor in her body, the minute shaking of the overwhelming emotion racing through her.

"I have never regretted a single decision I made on this case." Her eyes flit between his. He's not sure what she's looking for, reassurance or some sort of strength. All he can give her is another squeeze of her hand, the press of his body against hers.

He will not give her up.

He will not let her run.

He reaches for her, cups her face in his palm, makes her focus utterly and completely on him. "What else do I need to know?"

He can see it in her eyes, the flash across her face. There is something, something big. Something key.

Then comes the knock on the door. He steps back, separates from her reluctantly, watches her mask fall into place with a deep breath and a toss of her head. Then she catches his eyes.

 _Ready?_

No, not really. He wants more time with her, a handful of stolen moments to get that last piece of key information. Instead, he inclines his. _Always._

Emily heads for the door.

* * *

 _ **NEWS:** so, for those of you who know me, you know that December 1 is the beginning of my annual Christmas fic. This year, the fic is actually a group of smaller fics from a bunch of different universes, including Homecoming. _

_THIS FIC WILL BE ON HIATUS FOR THE NEXT MONTH while I get those fics out. _

_Thanks for your patience and I'm glad you guys are still enjoying this._

 _(I also realize, in a strange hindsight, this is a terrible place to leave you, like an inadvertent fall finale and I didn't mean to guys, okay? It happened and I feel bad...)_


	14. Chapter 14

He'd kissed her.

She's sitting at the back of a bullpen utterly teaming with agents from who knows how many agencies. She should be focused on the profile they're set to deliver, the extra insights she may be able to offer. But she can't. For all intents and purposes, she's still in her bathroom, still pressed against the counter.

"It's not often we know the subject's name, and in this case, knowing Ian Doyle's identity doesn't give us very much."

Emily forces herself to exhale as Morgan steps up beside her. Hotch had been dominating, fierce, possessive. She can still feel it shimmer through her, the broad heat of his palms, the way his hand had curled against hers on his chest.

"He's known to a select few and those who know him well either work beside him or they're on his list."

Look, she's self aware enough to know that the responding emotions are ones that have been simmering carefully since Haley's death. Well, before that, really, but it always makes her feel strange to admit it. Still, she'd never really nurturned those feelings. She's never expected anything to come of the easy rapport and deeply personal turn their relationship had taken over the years.

"Two of three of his victims worked for CWS and were responsible for his transport to North Korea. There were seven operatives on the mission all together and those remaining five have been warned."

She can't wrap her head around it. It had been a claiming, certainly. She can't miss that, nor can she ignore the timing. There's enough on her plate, there's enough on their plate, without adding this personal touch to the mix. It's not the time, but as she bites her lip, she thinks she can still taste him. She can't deny that she wants it, that he's opened the door.

"All the federal and international agents responsible for tracking him down are now on his list of targets."

Her heart flips when he meets her gaze head on. God. God, she does not want Ian to play a role in them, in her and Hotch. Especially since now that Easter's safely tucked away in an interrogation room, she knows what their next step has to be. If they want to even have a chance of catching Ian, swarms of agents won't do it. Ian wants her. He will not stop until he gets her.

"We'll find Doyle the way we find any other offender: by studying his behaviour. We'll dissect his every move since he regained his freedom. When he escaped from North Korea…"

Hotch's voice fades now as her mind finally, finally gets back on track. She catches Morgan's quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Hers flick to Seaver first, young, innocent, still in the beginning stages of her career, then over to Dave, at his watchful, pensive gaze. Garcia's all but bouncing beside a deceptively calm Reid before her gaze is pulled irresistibly to Hotch, to the way he commands the room, the confident way he outlines each of Doyle's movements.

Morgan actually catches her gaze this time, gives her no choice but to acknowledge him.

"You good?" he asks.

Her eyes track to JJ, meet the blonde's where they focus on Hotch, dart to her to offer a nod of acknowledgement, blue eyes fierce and fighting ready. She steels her stomach against what she's going to have to do next, the step she's going to have to convince them all to take. They have to take the power, the control, away from Ian.

She knows just how to do it.

So she meets Morgan's gaze, tilts her mouth up in the first genuine piece of a smile she's been able to manage since greeting JJ. "I'm good."

And oh, oh she is.

Because Emily Prentiss is going hunting.

* * *

 _This ended up being on hiatus longer than I anticipated and I'm sorry for that. I'm hoping to get back on a sort of once a month posting schedule. Life's busy as all anything so I don't want to get your hopes up re: a more frequent posting schedule._

 _I don't have words for how much it means that you guys have been so patient with me about this. It's made writing this so easy and wonderful and a low-stress genuine pleasure. It's been a while since I've felt that way about this pairing._


	15. Chapter 15

Hotch grips her arm on the stairs as she heads for the conference room. It's not a painful grip, nor is it insistent, but the little tug he adds tells her that it most certainly isn't a request. So she follows him, weaves through the chaos of departing agents and cops.

She finds her fist clenching as the pass the doors, her body screaming to take off, to run. She wants to hunt Ian down the way she knows best. She wants the control of being the one in the hunt, not chasing him, playing his game. She can feel it, the way her mind automatically calculates the easiest way to get out of Quantico without drawing attention. Even trailing behind Hotch she knows it wouldn't be that hard.

Instead, she climbs the stairs to his office, lets him close the door and box her in.

It's the first time they've been alone since the kiss and her body responds. Her eyes want to flutter despite the mess of her brain. Her palms are pressed flat to the door. It's a fight not to reach out, just as much as it's a fight not to run. She hates the juxtaposition. She hates the idea that he's opened a proverbial door and now it's changing the way she wants to look at this case.

His eyes flash, either because he knows he has her or because he realizes just how close she'd been to slipping away.

"No."

She lets confusion rather than awareness race across her face. He isn't fooled.

"Whatever it is you're thinking about doing, no."

She doesn't deflate or play the victim. The time for that has long passed. Now she needs to take control. "Waiting for him is useless."

She expects an argument if she's honest. She expects him to tell her that Ian is just like every other UNSUB they've ever faced. It's not even close to what happens. He steps back, minute, but enough that she feels it. It's a shocking bereft feeling as much as a relief.

"What other options do we have?"

There's nothing she can do to stop the feral smile from spreading over her face. Her game. Her element.

He's not impressed. "No."

The smile doesn't diminish. It won't. Not now. He's tipped his hand in even asking her and she has no problem taking advantage.

"No."

The repetition does nothing to dissuade her, nor does the stern tone to his voice. He's trying, bless him.

"We don't have a choice," she says.

"We always have a choice."

She shakes her head, doesn't realize she's reached out until her palm is pressed flat to his chest. It's a careful, intimate gesture she shouldn't make, not because she can manipulate him but because it's a connection that will not serve her well in the next few hours.

Having her emotions tied up in someone else isn't going to help her do what needs doing.

And what needs doing is the furthest thing from pretty.

"We don't have a choice. Not this time."

Still, they both know her touch gives him permission, a new sort of leverage he can use against her. He takes advantage, stepping in again. Even this is reckless. He knows it and she knows it. His hands cup her hips, low, out of sight. He's close enough now that she can feel the heat of him, even if he isn't pressing.

"I have to go," she murmurs, her hand tangling around his tie. "You know it."

"Our way works."

"Not with Ian."

The familiarity, the intimacy of using Ian's first name isn't lost on her. In fact, it's deliberate and carefully calculated. It's a reminder of who she is, and who she'd been to Ian. It's a reminder that this case isn't like every other one; this case is different. Still, Hotch's only outward reaction is the way his fingers tense on her hips.

"No running."

He's right she'd promised. It's the only reason she hasn't made a run for it. "Still here, aren't I?"

His mouth twitches, a miniscule acknowledgement of the fact that she, indeed, hasn't made a run for it. She focuses her eyes on her hand, the stark paleness of her fingers and the dark colour of his tie.

"We can't chase him, Hotch. We'll lose."

"So you want to hunt him."

It rises up in her, the ruthless darkness that had endeared her to Ian to begin with. The viciousness and need. His thumb strokes along the edge of her waistband over her blouse, desperate in his own way, demonstrative in ways she could never have anticipated in the confines of the BAU.

"You want to put yourself directly in the line of fire," he goes on, voice low, angry and intimate in equal measure. She shivers. "You want to be bait."

"Our hunt, our terms," she counters. "The right plan, the right back up."

"Your plan. My backup." He doesn't like it. It's written in the tension of his jaw.

She's undaunted. "We're playing his game." It's a thought she's been playing with for hours now, days really. "Let's lure him into ours."

He watches her for a moment, hoping, she thinks, to find another way around it. He can't find it, she knows it. He does too.

"What do you have in mind?"


End file.
